


A Few Days Later

by Iolre



Series: John Was There [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Addiction, Hospital, Hurt/Comfort, John is an awesome doctor, M/M, Second meeting, Sherlock is a horrible patient
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:17:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wakes up, and isn't what John is expecting. Which is good, because John isn't what Sherlock was expecting either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes a writer and a pairing grow apart. Due to various events in the fandom and my own personal growth, there have become pairings I enjoy writing less than others. Due to that and a lack of time to properly maintain all of my projects, I have decided to put this piece on hiatus. There is a possibility that I will return and finish it, but I can no longer guarantee it.
> 
> My most sincere apologies,
> 
> Iolre

As a doctor, John was able to get away with visiting more than normal family members could. There was also the small detail that he wasn't actually a family member. Or the small fact that he had never actually talked to the patient he was visiting the three days that Sherlock was comatose. He rarely stayed more than a few hours, mostly after his shift, but each day he would go upstairs, nod to the nurses, and install himself into a chair by Sherlock's bed.

John guessed that Mycroft's influence was why the nurses did not kick him out, especially when he lingered while they were doing report. As an ER doctor he often sent patients up to the ICU and knew most of the staff by name. It was gratifying to see that the most experienced nurses and doctors were handling Sherlock's care, routine though it was. John didn't know why he felt so relieved. He still did not know why he even came to sit by the man's bed, but he did it anyway, sitting and reading quietly out loud to the sleeping man.

It was three days later when Sherlock first showed signs of moving. John had arrived a few hours before his shift was set to begin to sit with the comatose man. Sherlock’s fingers had twitched and an eyelid had fluttered open, drawing John's attention immediately. His heart rate had increased slightly, sending the monitor beeping, and immediately the nurse monitoring his care had came in, stethoscope around her neck. "He's waking up," John told her, scooting closer to the bed instinctively. His other hand was on his mobile, sending a text to Sherlock's brother. Mycroft had texted him the first time he had shown up at Sherlock's bedside, nearly giving John a heart attack.

Not that it had really surprised him that Mycroft had his number. The man had been impressive enough to gain access to a secure ER, he was certainly able to get his hands on to John's personal phone number. "Where's his brother?" the nurse (Charlotte) asked John quickly, a penlight in her hand as she checked pupil reflexes. Sherlock jerked away from her hand and John smothered a grin, pleased. He was waking up, and he was fighting.

Now if only he could stay clean. John's mood sobered a bit at that. He hadn't wanted to think what would happen once Sherlock woke up. The whole thing was silly, really, since John did not even know Sherlock. The curly-haired man had no idea who he was, or what he had done. John was ridiculously attached to someone who would not even recognize him. It was silly and sentimental and John didn't give a flying flip. There was something about the man that was so damned charismatic that John felt like he was being pulled towards a black hole.

"He's trying to talk around the tube," Charlotte murmured, her soft voice amazed.

"Let's get Dr. Sanders in here so we can get him extubated, then," John told her, standing up so he could examine Sherlock's face. The eyes were open, and John was startled by the colour. They were a soft gray-blue, icy and warm at the same time, an odd juxtaposition. It was mere minutes before the ICU doctor stood in the doorway, Mycroft right by his side. John smiled at Mycroft, grateful. "He's waking up. I thought you might want to be here for it."

"I'm not sure he'll appreciate it," the older Holmes hedged, uncertainty clear in his voice and his posture. John shook his head and crooked a finger in his direction.

"I don't care if he'll appreciate it or not," he said frankly. "You're his brother and you have far more of a right to be here than I do." Mycroft seemed to consider this before he nodded sharply, walking over to Sherlock's other side. John didn't voice it, but he did not want to be the sole person around when Sherlock woke up. Every time the man's eyes fluttered open they seemed to turn in John's direction and the ER doctor wasn't certain what to think. He had no right to be there, but he was, and he had decided he would feel more comfortable if Sherlock knew someone else in the room.

"Alright, let's get that tube out." Dr. Saunders, the chief of the ICU, sauntered forward. Immediately John backed up, allowing both him and Charlotte complete access to the head of the bed. It wasn't often that they were able to extubate people in the ER (most of the time when they were intubated they stayed that way), but he knew the theory behind it. It wasn't long before the tube was carefully pulled out of Sherlock's mouth, leaving him coughing and spluttering. The ICU team did a quick physical, backing away as soon as it was apparent that Sherlock had regained full consciousness.

It was then that Sherlock opened his mouth and started talking. His voice was hoarse and raspy, but strong nonetheless. "Get away from me, you imbeciles!"

"Look, if we have to, we'll tranquilise you," Dr. Saunders gritted out. "Please calm down. We'll be done soon, you just need to hang in there for a bit."

"Mycroft, get out." Sherlock turned his attention to his brother, the startling eyes narrowing in absolute derision. "You've gained two kilos since I last saw you. Diet not going so well, I take it?"

"It's nice to see you alive, brother dear," Mycroft remarked quietly, seemingly unbothered by Sherlock's derogatory remarks. "After you showed up in the ER and coded. Twice."

"Only twice?" Sherlock shook his head, his hoarse voice dismissive. "I'm losing my touch." John bristled, and it was then that he came under Sherlock's scrutiny. "And who are you?"

"Shut up and let the nurse finish her assessment," John said firmly, infusing the command with as much of his authority as he could. A tour in the military after he had graduated medical school had given him quite the parade voice and he was gratified to see Sherlock stop what he was about to say. He was tense and scowling, but he had kept his mouth shut. That was an improvement. John turned his gaze to Mycroft, his peripheral vision focused on the nurse who was doing the fastest assessment she had ever done. "How many times has this happened before?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock drawled, cutting off the older brother before he was able to speak. Charlotte and Dr. Saunders left, although John was certain that at least the nurse stayed near the exit of the room in case Sherlock got too agitated. Sedation could be necessary if he was unable to calm down. "Did you bring me my own pet doctor this time? At least this one is something nice to look at."

There was a sharp noise as John's hand came in contact with the metal of the chair he was in. He had stood up with his mobile in his hand and it had clanged sharply against the cheap chair. "Now you bloody listen to me, you little ungrateful bastard," John started, seething and beyond caring how unprofessional he sounded. "I saved your life. Twice. Your brother was beyond worried about you. Stop acting like this is some little drama that you can orchestrate at your will, and be grateful you're alive. We almost lost you."

The other two people in the room were staring at John with wide eyes, startled by his outburst. John was nearly as surprised, although he refused to show it, arms crossed strategically in front of him as he stared Sherlock down. Sherlock averted his eyes and John felt a small flicker of triumph. "I am no one's pet. I've been sitting here, waiting for you to wake up, and now that you are, it's nearly enough to make me regret the time that I spent waiting." Sherlock went to open his mouth and John lifted a finger. "But I don't. You're awake, and alive, and feisty, and that's more than I can say for some of the patients I see that come in like you did."

Both Holmes brothers were staring at him now. Mycroft had an eyebrow lifted, slightly surprised at the vehemence of John's words. Sherlock was staring at him, his eyes slightly wider than they had been, as if he was uncertain of how to react. Finally he looked away, looking straight ahead. "Sit down."

Shrugging, John did so, settling back into his chair next to the man in the bed. It couldn't hurt. If he was really lucky he might have changed something in the way Sherlock thought. “What’s your name?” Sherlock demanded.

“I’m Dr. John Watson,” the doctor responded evenly. “Your name is Sherlock Holmes. Just in case you don’t remember.” He paused, watching as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, although the curly-haired man had not turned to look at him. “You overdosed on heroin, which I can’t stop you from ever taking it, but I’ll help you if you want to be rid of it.” John watched several expressions flash over Sherlock’s face in the span of a few seconds, from confusion to realisation to something bordering hatred and anger.

“You’re sending me to rehab again,” Sherlock hissed.

John shrugged, examining his nails in the guise of patience. “I’m not planning to. Mycroft? What about you?”

“How did you two meet?” Sherlock’s gaze flickered between the two men as he cut his brother off for the second time, accusatory.

“Over your nearly dead body,” John answered before Mycroft could, his voice nearly cheerful. His eyes flickered to the clock. “I have about an hour before I have to work, so if you have any more questions, might as well ask them now.” The quiet beeping of the monitors was their sole background noise, echoing hollowly in the overly large room.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock snarled at Mycroft, who merely smiled a bland smile.

“I will leave you two alone,” he said politely, standing and walking towards the door.

“Mycroft!” John protested. He watched as the politician slid out of the room and closed the sliding glass door firmly behind him. Sherlock’s eyes were ignoring his brother and focused intently on the doctor in front of him. John turned his gaze back towards the man assessing him, relaxing as he did so. If Sherlock was anything like his brother then he would be able to read all of John’s life story if he chose to.

“What do you want?” Sherlock said finally. It was as if he had read all of John’s story and had been unable to conclude why John would be there. Which was fine with John, because he had not quite figured that out himself.

“Nothing,” he answered honestly. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as such a declaration, nearly accusing in their intensity. “Really, Sherlock. I’ve worked with enough addicts to know that I can’t force one to get clean. You have to want it.”

If John had not been studying Sherlock with nearly as much focus as Sherlock had been directing his way, he would have missed the slightest widening of his eyes and the barely-there part of his lips. He had managed to surprise Sherlock, then. He couldn’t help but feel the slightest bit pleased at having drawn such a reaction out of the ornery man. “I don’t want it,” Sherlock said finally. His voice sounded different, more lost. It tugged at John’s hardened heartstrings.

“What do you want, Sherlock?” John inquired quietly. Something shifted, something that led John to believe that no one had ever honestly asked Sherlock that question before. There was a vulnerability to his face, quickly covered up by his mask of a stoic distastefulness for the rest of humanity.

“I don’t need to tell you that.” Sherlock lifted his arm and glared at the IV in the crook of his elbow, one the nurses had fought hard to place.

“You need to stay hydrated,” John chided automatically, scooting closer in the metal chair to take Sherlock’s arm in his warm, deft hands. “The nurses will be so upset if this infiltrated. You don’t have many veins left.” A quick glance assured him that the line was still patent, able to be used, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He doubted that an awake, wiggly Sherlock would be much easier to poke than the uncomplaining unconscious version.

He glanced back up to see Sherlock watching him with an odd, somewhat surprised expression on his face. “You are slightly less horrible than the majority of humanity,” Sherlock declared.

“Coming from you that is probably a ringing endorsement,” John said dryly.

Sherlock didn’t bother to answer, instead shifting his focus restlessly about the room. “Why are you here?” He seemed frustrated with his inability to answer the questions without asking them of John, fingers twitching spasmodically in the cotton sheets as he leaned against the support of the bed. He shifted constantly, small movements that made John want to tie him to the bed.

“Because I want to be. Stop moving, you’re going to hurt yourself.” Gently John took Sherlock’s hands and settled them on the bed. “Charlotte - your nurse - is going to come to transfer you down to the regular med/surg floor soon, I’d bet,” John said, checking the clock. “Based on your progress I’d estimate about the same time I have to leave for my shift.”

“Your presence at the conclusion of your shift would not be horribly revolting.” There was an anxiety to Sherlock’s words, matching the cautious way his eyes glanced around the room, looking at everything but John. “Perhaps I would be able to tolerate it.”

“Is that your way of asking me to drop by again?” John said with a chuckle. He smiled slightly. “Yeah, I think I can do that. If you’re not asleep, anyway.”

They sat quietly after that, the silence companionable. John spent his time checking Sherlock’s various monitors, doing some of the grunt work to prep him for transport so that his nurse could wait a bit longer to take him. He could feel Sherlock’s eyes following his every movement, attempting to puzzle him out. John had, apparently, presented a conundrum that Sherlock had not been prepared for, and he was going to do his best to resolve that.

Finally the clock ticked to the point John couldn’t ignore it any more, and he stood up with a yawn, stretching and relaxing muscles that had tensed from his vigil. “I’ll drop by for a bit after my shift, yeah?” he said, looking at Sherlock for confirmation. The bed-bound man inclined his head a bit, and John grinned.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice was cautious, treading carefully as if he was approaching uneven ground. John had just reached the door and he turned around, questioning. “Thank you.”

John smiled, something warm and genuine that came with no difficulty. “No problem,” he answered. With that he was out of the room, opening and closing the door behind him. Just out of sight he spotted Mycroft standing there, observing Sherlock’s various monitors on the replicas at the nurse’s station. “You okay?” John must have surprised him, for he jumped.

“Yes,” Mycroft answered smoothly, as if he had never been startled. “My brother is, unfortunately, quite strong willed and we so rarely see eye to eye on even the simplest of topics. His addiction to illegal substances is merely another thing in which we disagree.”

“He has to want it,” John said, somewhat agreeably. “Did you raise him?”

“Yes.” Mycroft’s eyes flickered to the door of Sherlock’s room, something wanting and lonely in them that John recognised.

“From a young age, too, I’d bet,” John continued. This time Mycroft looked at him, the intensity of the gaze deepening. John felt like a bug under a microscope. “I don’t think your parents are dead, but I don’t think they are involved with either of you. I’d say you were - probably twelve or thirteen. Sherlock would have been probably five or six.”

“How do you know this?” the elder Holmes asked, a low hint of confusion and wonderment sounding oddly out of place.

“Personal experience,” John said with a shrug. “Anyway, I have to get to my locker to change or I’m going to be late. I told Sherlock I would drop by after my shift. Feel free to go in and see him. Charlotte will be coming to collect him to send him to the regular med/surg floor. He should be discharged in another day or two, once we make sure he’s not suffering any ill effects from the CPR.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmured, his eyes focused back on the glass door to Sherlock’s room. Apparently he wasn’t going to pry, and John was fine with that. Some wounds were best left alone.

“If you need anything, you know where I am.” John waited for Mycroft’s nod of acceptance before he strode over to the elevator. If he was lucky he could trade off a shift for the day Sherlock went home. It was ridiculous, and unethical, and John had to be careful, but Sherlock seemed to have no one in his corner and if he would let John get away with looking after him, even the slightest amount, he was going to take advantage of that, no matter what.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo there's going to be four or five parts to this. Probably four? We'll see. It'll update every two weeks, on Saturdays. This is getting updated early because it got finished early. Next update will be 8/31.
> 
> As usual, you can find me at [my tumblr](http://iolre.tumblr.com) for updates/ramblings/previews/etc.
> 
> Have at it!

The shift had been unbearably long, and John ended up handling six overdosing drug addicts. Every single one had been so far gone that they had coded and he had lost them. By the end of the shift he had refused to take the next one to come in, instead passing it off to the doctor that was taking over his patients. It was rare that an overdose turned fatal, even more rare when there to be that many in a row. It was bad luck, and John knew it, but he couldn’t help but see Sherlock in every dead junkie that came through his ER.

Seeing those odd, ice-blue eyes dead and lifeless, the track marks vivid against pale skin. The curls flopping uselessly as CPR continued, a last attempt to revive someone who was almost never coming back. He refused to cry, refused to give into any of the useless emotions that were coursing through him. He had known Sherlock less than a day, despite the vigil he had been standing. Why was he so attached to the bloody man?

John almost did not go to see Sherlock after his shift. He was not certain if he could handle it, handle seeing Sherlock survive while everyone he had seen that night had died. Reality was even more stark, for he knew that it would be more likely than not that Sherlock would end up back with a needle in his arm, no matter what. John had accepted that. His sister was an alcoholic, who struggled to get clean, much less maintain her sobriety. While the drugs were different, the addiction and the longing was the same. The reasons were not, but the reasons only mattered once Sherlock was interested in a solution.

Somehow he found himself in the elevator, riding to the medical/surgical floor. He stopped the nurse to get Sherlock’s room number, but did not have time to ask before he saw Mycroft walking in his direction. The grim expression on the taller man’s face was not promising, and John felt his heart sink. Had something taken a turn for the worse? Overdoses were tricky; sometimes symptoms were missed. Sherlock had been oxygen deprived for a while as well - had there been a hypoxia issue the ICU doctors had not found?

“Mycroft.” John’s eyes met his, searching and trying to decipher anything he found. “Is Sherlock okay?”

Mycroft’s eyes softened the slightest amount and John realized that the problem was not likely with Sherlock. It could have been, but John doubted it. “He is awake and terrorising the medical team, as usual,” he said dryly. “However - there is an issue.” John waited patiently for Mycroft to continue. “Sherlock is to be discharged tomorrow, and is convinced that he is to be returning to the same ramshackle establishment he was discovered in.”

“And your answer to that is hell no?” John sighed, seeing the problem. “And rehab’s out of the question.” He saw Mycroft’s head incline in agreement. “Least for now, anyway,” John amended. He thought for a few moments. He did have an extra room. Mycroft must have seen the change in his expression, seen something, for his eyes glimmered with knowing. “Oh hell no,” John said, his hands up and defensive. “I can’t bring a patient home. What I’m doing now is unethical. That would be - I don’t even know how many boundaries that would cross.” This, of course, was spoken in a hushed whisper. It wouldn’t be good for the other doctors or patients to overhear, for it really was none of their business what John did in his free time.

Mycroft stood and listened, brolly in his hand, the metal tip resting patiently on the floor as he waited for John to finish. “While I understand your objections, Dr. Watson, I do feel that your environment will offer a beneficial change for him.”

John’s mouth opened and closed while he thought about the implications of Mycroft’s words. “You have already checked my flat out, haven’t you?”

“Of course,” Mycroft answered, a blithe smile on his face. John sighed. Of course.

“I don’t have any choice in this, do I?”

“It would be far more expedient if you merely accepted the inevitable.”

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair, grimacing as it spiked up the damp strands. He was still overheated from his shift. At least he had changed out of his scrubs. He would have looked even more out of place on the med/surg floor with them still on. The last thing he needed was someone confusing him for their doctor or nurse. “He’s waiting for you.” Mycroft’s voice invaded John’s thoughts and he glanced up at the politician, startled, only to see that Mycroft was already heading towards the elevator, the umbrella swinging casually at his side.

This time he did stop a nurse and get the room number. A private room, which didn’t surprise him. Not only did Mycroft have money, but he was probably attempting to head off the international incident that would be the result of someone being forced to share a room with Sherlock. Opening the door, John walked in, careful to shut it behind him. There was a chair next to the rather comfy-looking bed (for a hospital, anyway) and he pulled it out slightly and sank into it.

Sherlock appeared to be asleep. Breathing even and deep, thin arms crossed defiantly over his chest. He was gaunt, like most drug addicts, with dark purple blotches underneath his eyes and scratches on his arms. Probably from when he was high. John’s breath hitched at the thought and he fought it down. God, what was it going to be like having this berk in his flat? Especially if John came home from a shift to find Sherlock high on the floor. It was such a bad idea that John was having trouble finding one that even sounded worse.

“You’re weak,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes opening and fixing on the doctor sitting next to him.

“Weak what?” John asked promptly. He could guess, Sherlock probably could guess, but it never hurt to clarify.

“You’re letting Mycroft do what he wants.” Sherlock’s ice-blue eyes were boring into John’s, the intensity making John a little self conscious.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” John said practically, leaning back into the chair.

“There’s always a choice.”

“You’re afraid that I don’t want this, aren’t you?” John tilted his head, latching eyes with the addict in the bed. “You’re afraid I’m being pressured into something I don’t want. That I’ll end up resenting you for it. That I’ll treat you badly.”

Sherlock drew himself up at that, losing his prior defensive posture. “No one can treat me badly,” he spat. “I care naught what other people think.”

“I think that’s a bunch of bullshit,” John said quietly. “You care a lot about what other people think. You just hide it behind a great big shell because you’ve been hurt so much.”

Sherlock snorted. “I’m a high functioning sociopath. I don’t have feelings.”

“Gee, for how smart you are, I’d think you would know that sociopath isn’t a diagnosis anymore. And you definitely don’t fit the criteria for antisocial personality disorder.” John watched, pleased, as Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed.

“Of course I know that,” Sherlock said, eyes narrowing. John kept his appearance bland, a pleasant smile on his face and his posture nonchalant. He didn’t want to give Sherlock any ammunition. People tended to react like that, when their insecurities were put in front of them. They looked for someone else to attack, a way to make someone else feel bad.

Finally Sherlock looked away and mentally John added a mark to his tally. John had won that round. For now, anyway. Sherlock was probably already planning another attack, one John couldn’t win. John’s gaze flickered to the monitors surrounding the man in the bed. There were fewer; most had been removed when Sherlock was transferred out of the ICU. Still, the two monitors he did have attached to him looked good. BP was normal, heart rate within (mostly) acceptable limits, oxygen level was fine. He was going to be discharged and would be fine.

Until he overdosed again, of course. “I’m going to do this again, you know.” The words were small and soft, so quiet that John nearly missed them. Sherlock had pulled his knees up to his chest and wasn’t looking at John. Instead his focus was his kneecaps, fingers tracing the shape of his patellas underneath his skin. “I can’t help it.”

John watched Sherlock for a few moments, startlingly aware of how much it had cost Sherlock to say that. “Admitting that there’s a problem is the first step,” the doctor said. He wasn’t encouraging, wasn’t judgmental, merely stating a fact. He knew he had to tread carefully with the taller man. As an ER doctor, John had learned how to read people, and quickly. Sherlock was an enigma at points, but he wasn’t nearly as mysterious as he liked to think he was. For once in his lifetime he thought about thanking his sister for what she was bottle-deep in the middle of. Without it, he wouldn’t have known what Sherlock was going through.

Sherlock fell quiet again, straightening out his legs with a grimace and settling against the back of the bed. John stifled a yawn, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he settled his legs underneath the hospital bed, closing his eyes. Sherlock was quiet, and John was going to enjoy the peace. If he was lucky he wouldn’t fall asleep. Distantly he heard Sherlock shift in the bed, heard him scratch at his elbow, and his mind presented him with the mental image of the third addict he had coded, lifeless in the bed.

His eyes snapped open; his breathing had accelerated, his pulse was rapid, and he was staring at Sherlock as if he was going to vanish any moment. Sherlock watched him for a few moments, searching, before he seemed to find something. Several emotions passed over Sherlock’s face in quick succession before he hid whatever he was thinking behind a blank, uncaring mask. “You should go home,” he said before John could open his mouth. “Having you around is distracting. Remove yourself from my presence.”

The doctor rubbed one of his eyes with a fist. “Is that Sherlockian for ‘go home and get some rest?” he asked with a faint chuckle. Sherlock scowled, but it wasn’t a real scowl. There was some mirth, some hidden amusement buried deep in the expression. Regardless, John got up and headed towards the door.

“I will be discharged tomorrow. Three in the afternoon,” Sherlock said quietly. John stopped, turning around to see Sherlock pulling out a cheap mobile and quickly becoming absorbed in it.

“I’ll be here,” John said, a slight smile on his face. “I don’t work tomorrow night.”

“You work primarily nights?” Sherlock’s sharp eyes were back on John’s face. John nodded, breaking eye contact to search for a piece of paper. He found an abandoned post-it note in his pocket and pulled it out. The nurse had left a pen on the counter near the sink and he grabbed it, scribbling down his phone number.

“Here. If you need anything, call me. Or text.” John smiled raggedly, his face worn from a need for sleep. Nights were often damaging for the circadian rhythm, especially when John had stayed up instead of going straight to bed. It was worth it, though. “I’d love it if you gave me some time to sleep instead of calling me right away.” He lifted an eyebrow, questioning. Sherlock smirked and John let out a laugh. “See you tomorrow, Sherlock.” John waved a hand in a salute as he walked out and closed the door.

He glanced around, pleased to see that Mycroft wasn’t lurking. The elevator ride was short and uncrowded, and he had gotten lucky and parked near the entrance. He yawned as he walked into his house. It was a small, one-story place, two bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. John had had a roommate a while ago, but it hadn’t worked out, so John had been maintaining the place by himself. As a doctor he didn’t really need a roommate, but the company had been nice.

Now he was preparing the spare room for a drug addict that he was being forced to bring home. He groaned; when had this become his life? Not that he was completely objecting. Besides the whole drug addiction thing, Sherlock wasn’t wholly bad. He was obnoxious, and frustrating, and John occasionally had an urge to punch him, but there was something about him that John was drawn to. He fought back yet another yawn.

Going through his guest bedroom, he changed the sheets and aired it out, clearing as much of the clutter as he could so that Sherlock had places to put any belongings he might have. He doubted there were many (drug addicts rarely had much), but he wanted to present Sherlock with the opportunity to do so. John did leave a few more welcoming knick knacks on the shelves and one on the dresser. His favorite was a waving cat that he had found when he was shopping. It was whimsical and supposed to be lucky. John thought that Sherlock could use all of the luck he could get.

He stumbled to the bedroom, shucking off his clothes as he did so. He crawled underneath the covers in just his underwear, yawning into the pillow as he curled onto his side. His phone was left on the bedside in case someone tried to call him; it was set to the lowest vibrating setting so that whomever would have to be persistent. Regular sleep was important when working night shifts and John wasn’t abut to screw it up. He fell asleep almost instantly.

The past few days had worn on him, and he slept nearly ten hours. When he woke up in the late evening, he felt extremely relaxed. Until he looked at his mobile, anyway. The flashing light on his mobile was blinking furiously, as if accusing him of not paying any attention to it. He opened the inbox and noted twelve text messages, all from the same number, each sighed ‘SH’.

At least Sherlock hadn’t woken him up. John figured he should be happy with small miracles.

‘Bored. SH’  
‘BORED. SH’  
‘John. SH’  
‘JOHN. SH’  
‘The nurse is sleeping with three of the doctors. SH’  
‘She has two children. One is her husband’s. One is the cardiologist’s. SH’

And so on and so forth. John was thankful that Sherlock hadn’t spent more time conscious around his colleagues, because he had a feeling he would have learned far more than he wanted to. ‘How do you know all of this?’ John texted back. He added Sherlock’s number to his contacts in case he needed to find it later, and then wandered out to the kitchen to make himself breakfast.

John sat down at his computer with some toast and tea, a simple breakfast. He would have to go to sleep early enough to be up about one, time to shower and get ready before he went and fetched Sherlock. The mobile on his desk buzzed and he glanced down at it, the hand not holding the jam-covered toast opening the text message. ‘Simple. SH’ There was a pause of about twenty seconds and then another buzz. ‘You sleep too much. SH’ John snorted. ‘You don’t sleep enough,’ he texted back, a hint of a smile on his face.

His phone was silent for a few minutes, long enough for John to start what he intended to Google. The next few hours passed quickly, between texting Sherlock and reading various websites. While John had dealt with quite a few addicts in his time in the ER, he had never had to deal with helping one get through the harder stages of their addiction. Despite their relatively short period of acquaintance, Sherlock had seemed to react more positively to John than anyone else. Not that John was wholly surprised - Sherlock seemed to naturally grate on everyone’s nerves.

Lunch passed, and he continued to read. Most of what he read was jogging information he had learned in medical school, but some of it was new information that he hoped would be useful. The smartest part of him knew that Sherlock was going to go straight back to drugs, even if he had a week or so of sobriety first. It was a coping mechanism, and although Sherlock was being removed from the environment, he hadn’t magically developed new coping skills. That would be something Sherlock would have to work on, and John would be there to help.

He nearly fell asleep at the computer, suddenly world-weary at the thought of everything he was going to encounter. He crawled back into bed and slept five hours before the sharp vibrations of his phone pulled him out of a deep sleep. His hand scrabbled against the small nightstand his mobile was on, bringing it to his ear. “Hello?” he said groggily. A glance at the clock showed him it was ten AM or so.

“I do request that you make your way to the hospital as quickly as possible.” Mycroft’s voice sounded pleasant, although John could hear the hint of steel underneath it. It wasn’t a request as much of an order.

“Is Sherlock okay?” Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes John sat up, waking up rapidly. It was a skill he had developed working in the ER, especially when it was a slow night (which was a rare occasion anymore).

“I am afraid the psychologist has stopped by and there has been some upset,” Mycroft said.

John groaned. “I’ll be there as soon as I’ve showered.” He hung up the mobile and swung out of bed, darting into the shower. He had forgotten the mandatory policy for overdose victims - if it was intentional, or close enough to death, a psychologist had to clear the patient before they could be discharged. Sherlock was volatile enough that John dreaded to think what was going to happen.

Dressed, he grabbed his jacket and flew out the door. He was half-afraid of what awaited him at the hospital.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took longer than expected. ;~; School's been /so/ busy.
> 
> Still hoping to update on the 14th. We'll see. There's one more chapter (I think) left in this part. Then there'll probably be a short hiatus before the next part goes up - gotta get school under control.

John arrived at the hospital and parked in his spot. Sherlock was like an exotic creature - John never quite knew what to expect when he was in the picture. Ignoring the elevator, John took the stairs. It would be quicker and he didn’t want to risk getting held up on the staff elevators by a coding patient. Not that he didn’t have sympathy for coding patients, mind you, but he had more sympathy for whichever psychologist had drawn the short straw and had to attempt to evaluate Sherlock’s frame of mind.

Mycroft was standing just outside the elevators, his mobile in one hand and his normal umbrella in the other. He must have heard or sensed John, for the moment the doctor headed in his direction Mycroft turned and smiled. It was a strained smile, just a bit too tight around the edges. John carefully examined the ward. Nothing was broken, and there was no blood, so he doubted Sherlock had made a run for it. Probable psychological damage, then. For who was the next question.

“So you said it was urgent?” John asked, panting slightly. He wasn’t as in shape as he used to be, and going up a few flights of stairs in a rush took a lot out of him. His army days were too far in the past. Distantly he made a brief resolution to exercise more. Maybe take up running.

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed. Without another word he led John to Sherlock’s room and stood in front of the door. He turned back to face John, and his voice dropped lower, more secretive. “The psychologist left about a minute before you arrived, however…” Pressing a few buttons on his mobile, sound rose from the mobile Mycroft was holding in his hand.

John immediately recognized Sherlock’s sneering voice. “I’m sure, as a psychologist, you can accurately evaluate my frame of mind. You’re a serial adulterer. How many mistresses are you maintaining? And you have children with two of them.” John heard a tsk and winced. “That doesn’t count the one you murdered to maintain your secret, nor her child. They’re buried underneath the tree at the house of your wife. Your first wife, that is.”

And it continued. For three minutes Sherlock continued dredge up every secret that the psychologist had probably ever had, to stunned silence and the occasional splutter of protest. Finally Mycroft clicked off the recording. “Dreadful mess,” he said mournfully. “The police had to come and arrest him. Sherlock was all too pleased with himself.”

“And the problem with this is?” John asked, not entirely certain as to why he was there.

“Unfortunately the hospital is refusing to sign off on Sherlock’s release.” Mycroft’s voice was steely. “At least not yet. While I could pursue…alternate routes, I do prefer to not cause a fuss.”

“Or you won’t blackmail the CEO unless you have to, eh?” John snorted.

“I know naught of what you speak, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft tsked. “However, if I were to have the power to do such a thing - I agree your evaluation of the dilemma might be correct.”

“And this relates to me how?” John lifted an eyebrow.

“I was able to, however, get the hospital to agree to release him with your signature.” Mycroft’s bland smile made more sense now. John was going to be the puppet. John ran a hand through his hair, sighing.

“Fine.” Mycroft lifted an eyebrow and went to open his mouth. John held up a finger. “Not a word,” he said. “I’m not going to argue with you because I know how it’s going to end up. Not. Another. Word.”

Mycroft’s smile deepened and John had the feeling that the man smirked with his entire body. Fuck. It was bad enough that he had to take Sherlock home. He just hoped it wasn’t a package deal. Pushing open Sherlock’s door, he walked inside, shutting it firmly behind him.

Sherlock laid on the bed, staring resolutely at the wall. His face was blank, something that set off warning signs in John’s head. No matter what Mycroft thought, this wasn’t smug - this wasn’t pleased. This was something different, something darker. Grabbing the chair by the side of the bed, John tugged it over to the bed and sank down into it, propping his elbows on the bed and placing his chin on his joined hands. He took some time and just sat, staring at the man who was putting quite a bit of effort into ignoring him.

They sat in silence for what John estimated was at least fifteen minutes, neither man speaking. John studied Sherlock’s face, saw the minute little motions, the occasional blinks and twitches that proved that he was not made out of stone. Finally Sherlock broke. “Aren’t you supposed to be asking me questions?” His voice wasn’t the sneer John had heard on the recording. It wasn’t defeated, wasn’t vulnerable. It was carefully guarded, creating the maximum illusion that Sherlock was bored and fine - or would be, if John would just leave him alone.

“Weren’t you supposed to be answering them earlier?” John countered. Sherlock’s gaze flickered back to John for a split second, fast enough that John nearly didn’t catch it.

“He was an imbecile. A murderer.”

“But that’s not what’s bothering you, is it?” John’s voice was quieter, and the flicker back to John was enough of a confirmation.

The silence dragged on long enough for John to get comfortable in his chair, long enough for the fatigue to start pulling at parts of his mind and making him groggy. He sternly told it to stop, and dragged his mental faculties back to full attention. This was Sherlock. Whatever bothering him was probably going to take John some time to wrap his mind around, even working at full capacity.

“How could they have missed it?” Sherlock’s voice was derisive, harsh. John unclasped his hands and leaned back, watching Sherlock intently. “All the signs were right in front of them. I could see them. And they couldn’t. How many puzzles are going unsolved, with the way they are?”

“We’re not all as smart as you, Sherlock,” John said, watching Sherlock intently. “We don’t see all of the signs.”

“Then why does the public trust them to solve such simple things?” Sherlock’s gaze was on him now, his eyes wide and frantic. There was something else there, something that John wasn’t sure what was. His pupils were pinpricks, and his breathing was accelerated. Sherlock looked almost high. He had the physiological responses of being high on some kind of drug, without the opportunity or access to any kind of drug.

“Have you taken anything?” John inquired in the silence that lingered.

Sherlock snorted dismissively. “No.” There was a pause, and John watched the monitors, eyeballing the medication levels and other signs of Sherlock’s health. He felt Sherlock’s eyes boring into him. “Solving that case - the puzzle. It felt like a hit, like the drug surging through my veins.” His voice was whisper-soft, shame tinging the words. Marvel tied with embarrassment, as if he dared not confess anything he thought.

“That’s a good thing,” John answered, careful to maintain a nonchalant expression. Part of him was hopeful, and part of him hated himself for that hope. Addicts were always the same. They always crashed and burned, no matter what they came up with. Sherlock would be no different. However, this was a start. If Sherlock could find something that would keep him off drugs, even if it was just temporary, that could be enough to get him the start of a stable foundation.

The room fell quiet again, although the silence felt a lot more comfortable that time around. John had relaxed into the chair, and Sherlock laid quietly on the bed, his gaze switching between the wall and the chair John was sitting in. It wasn’t long before his breathing smoothed out and his pupils returned to normal, as if nothing had happened. There was a soft knock on the door and John glanced up to see Mycroft walk in. He could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes from where he was sitting, and he tutted quietly in response.

“Brother,” Mycroft said stiffly, his eyes on Sherlock’s form in the bed. “Dr. Watson. Has the necessary paperwork been completed?” John felt the hint of Sherlock’s frown directed at him, and he stood and walked over to the computer tucked in the corner of the room. Some nurses and doctors did their charting on the computers in the rooms. It was most useful when performing a patient assessment, but it would work equally well for John to do his discharge paperwork.

“The hospitalist will have to sign off on the discharge,” John said, frowning at the computer as he sorted through the confusing system. The ER used a subset of the electronic records system and John rarely had reason to delve into the more complex system that ran the majority of the hospital’s patients. He had never had access nor reason to do so before. Stupid bloody buttons. He muttered under his breath as he clicked through various tabs, finally finding what he was looking for and entering the required data.

“You use a different system in the ER?” Sherlock asked, his focus on John. John nodded absently, closing out the program once he finished.

“You don’t need the same things for ER patients,” he explained. “We tend to track people for hours rather than days or months. Our needs are different.”

“Interesting.”

“You just asked that to distract me, didn’t you?” John turned to Sherlock with a faint smile.

Sherlock watched him critically, tracked John’s movements as he walked back over to the door. “Yes.”

John chuckled. “I have to go find the hospitalist. If you two could prepare Sherlock for discharge? The nurse will be in to discontinue the IV. If you would rather me do it -” Sherlock had lifted an eyebrow. “Fine. I’ll be right back.”

He wandered out, quickly seeing the hospitalist assigned to Sherlock’s care. Mycroft had picked the best of the bunch. “Hey,” John said, moving into the doctor’s line of view. His name was Dr. Thomas Osiem and John had worked with him a handful of times prior.

“What are you doing up here?” the doctor asked, leaning against the wall. He looked exhausted.

John jerked his head towards Sherlock’s room. “Him,” he answered.

“How’d you get messed up in that?” Thomas shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “Never had a patient accuse one of our therapists of murder - and be right about it, at least.”

“He isn’t a run of the mill patient,” John agreed. “Look, I did his psych eval and cleared him for discharge. Yeah, I know. Ridiculous.”

“That would never hold up in court,” Thomas pointed out.

“Good thing his brother has no intentions of taking it to court,” John responded.

“He got any follow up?” Thomas asked. They shifted farther down the wall until they encountered one of the indents with a computer resting in it. They weren’t as common as they were in the ICU, but there were still enough computers for the nurses and doctors to share.

“You could say that, yeah,” John answered promptly. “He’ll be living with someone who knows what to look for.”

“His brother, I’d bet,” Thomas said absently, clicking through the discharge notes. “Scary feller, he is. Right about pinned me to the wall with those eyes of his. Not much better than his brother when it came to social skills.”

“They are kind of abysmal.” John couldn’t hide his grin.

“Alright. Once his IV’s done, and a nurse has gone over the discharge paperwork with him, he’s free to go.”

“Yeah, I kind of told him I’d do that.”

“His brother didn’t want another lawsuit on his hands, eh?”

“Is there even a nurse that would work with him on this floor?” John quirked an eyebrow.

Thomas snorted. “Probably not.” He clasped John on the shoulder, giving him a fond smile. “Take care of you.”

John watched him for a moment before forcing a smile onto his face. How much did the other doctor guess? He didn’t want to know. “Yeah, of course.” He laughed. “You too! Don’t let that wife of yours run you to the ground.”

With an enigmatic smile, the other doctor walked off, leaving John standing there. A nurse passed him the discharge paperwork and he thanked her and walked back to Sherlock’s room. He was not surprised to hear snarky comments being met with derisive ones, and he sighed as he walked in. “Do I need to separate you two?” he asked mildly.

“Of course. Mycroft, feel free to leave.”

“Oh do shut up, Sherlock,” Mycroft snarled, his patience clearly running low. John merely lifted an eyebrow and both men fell silent, fuming in their own ways. “Your childish mannerisms are clearly infectious.” This was said with more dignity, and John fought to hold back an eyeroll.

Ignoring the glares they shot at each other, John walked over and carefully slid the IV out of Sherlock’s arm, taping a ball of cotton over the site. “Do you have something to wear, or are you going to wear the hospital gown home?” he asked mildly.

“I have clothes in the bathroom,” Sherlock said with as much dignity as he could muster.

“Well, have at it,” John said, gesturing. “Slowly, mind you.” He watched as Sherlock slid his legs to the side and stood up. It startled him; he hadn’t realized Sherlock was so tall. John got an eyeful of a firm, pale arse before Sherlock disappeared. It was then that he realized he had been ogling his patient in front of said patient’s older, scary brother. Fuck. “Medical evaluation,” he said, with as much dignity as he could muster.

“I am certain it was an evaluation of some kind,” Mycroft replied, a smirk lurking somewhere in his carefully controlled face. “Not to worry. I have all necessary confidence in your ability to - evaluate.”

The next few minutes passed in a hideously awkward sort of silence, the kind where John couldn’t believe what he had done and preferred to pretend it didn’t exist. Before long Sherlock came back in, and John was thrown for another sort of loop. Sherlock had dressed in a well-tailored suit, black in the jacket and pants with a crisp purple button-up shirt underneath. He looked like he had just stepped out of a magazine.

John stared. And stared some more. It was so different from the Sherlock that he had seen come into the ER, so different from the one in the hospital. Finally there was a cough behind him and he broke out of his concentration, jerking his gaze towards Mycroft. “Did you finish your examination, Doctor?” The smirk on Mycroft’s lips was pure evil and John forced his features to remain neutral as Sherlock’s gaze focused on him. John could feel the tips of his ears turning red and he damned the elder Holmes to the darkest pits of hell.

As he went to open his mouth Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “No need for the discharge paperwork. Are there any other boring boxes we need to finish? No? Then I think our time here is done.” He turned to give Mycroft the fakest smile John had ever seen. “Good day, Mycroft.” And then Sherlock was out the door before either could react.

“Better catch up,” Mycroft said after a moment. John sighed and trudged out of the room, trotting to catch up with the long-legged man.

Sherlock slowed slightly as John approached, eventually coming to a stop in front of the elevator. “You know you’re supposed to ride out in a wheelchair,” John pointed out.

“Pedestrian,” Sherlock replied dismissively, his focus on the elevator in front of him. They stood in silence for a few moments before John realized that Sherlock must have forgotten to press the button. He leaned forward and pressed it, noticing with a faint grin that the tips of Sherlock’s ears flushed pink. So he had forgotten, then.

They rode down the elevator in silence, although John’s gaze flickered between their path and Sherlock. Emerging from the elevator, John led the way to the physician’s parking lot, Sherlock close behind. Neither apparently felt the need for conversation, and Sherlock stayed a half-step behind John, following his lead.

“You drive that?” Sherlock wrinkled his nose at John’s car, and John bristled in its defense.

It wasn’t a flashy car. It was a bit old, a bit battered. But it worked, and John wasn’t about to waste any money buying a new one. “It works,” he said defensively.

“I would figure as a doctor you could afford something better,” Sherlock muttered, handling the car door as if it would explode or contaminate him at any second.

“I could,” John agreed. “I just didn’t think it was necessary.” Getting in the car, he turned it on, staring pointedly at Sherlock until he rolled his eyes and buckled his seatbelt.

John didn’t live far away, and it wasn’t long before they pulled up in front of his small house. He took a deep breath as he stepped out of the car. This was it. He was bringing a patient home. He was bringing Sherlock Holmes home.

John just hoped that his house could handle it - hoped that he could handle it.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock followed him, eyes taking in everything, starting with the exterior of the home. John led the way to the front door, having to take two or three attempts at putting the key into the lock before he successfully unlocked it. “So here it is,” he said self-consciously, pulling his wallet and keys out of his pockets and placing them on the table. Sherlock acknowledged him with a muted noise and disappeared through the nearest door. “Oi, that’s my bedroom!” John trailed after him, standing in the doorway and watching nervously as Sherlock pulled out various drawers, cursorily examining the contents and moving onto the next set.

It wasn’t long before he seemed bored of John’s bedroom and wandered into the adjacent bathroom. John sighed, rubbing his face with a hand. He had a feeling this was a fight he couldn’t win, and not one that he wanted to even bother attempting. Walking out to the living room, he turned on the coffee machine. Although he had a day or two off (and a third, if he could switch a shift), it was going to suck shifting back to the night schedule he had to maintain for work.

He drank two cups of coffee and was in the process of putting together a pair of sandwiches when Sherlock finally settled on a stool, watching him intently. “Do you like mayo on your sandwich?” John asked absently, finishing assembling his sandwich.

“Not hungry,” Sherlock replied dismissively.

“Do you like mayo on your sandwich?” John repeated, lifting an eyebrow.

Sherlock scowled. “No.”

“Mustard?”

“No.” It sounded less irritated than before, a weak version of the prior protest.

“Mustard it is.”

"I said no."

"And I'm ignoring you." John quickly assembled a second, smaller sandwich for the particular man, and then paused. "Do you like crusts on your sandwiches?"

"I'm not a child, John," Sherlock snapped peevishly.

John smiled amiably. "No, you're not. But if I can increase the likelihood of you eating it, I'll do whatever you want."

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a few moments, not meeting John's eyes. His fingers drummed on the marble counter, and John waited patiently, giving Sherlock the time to decide whether he wanted to answer. "No crusts," he said finally.

"No crusts," John agreed, carefully cutting the crusts off of the bread before slicing the sandwich in half. He pushed the plate towards Sherlock before grabbing his own, settling on the stool next to the taller man. "Want something to drink?"

"No."

"I'll allow that," John said around a bite of his sandwich. "I'll show you where the cups and stuff are, so you can get them on your own next time. You’ve got to stay hydrated, Sherlock. Especially fresh out of the hospital."

"I already know where they are." Sherlock took a few bites of his sandwich, grimacing at the taste. John sighed.

"You only have to eat half of it," the doctor told him.

Obediently Sherlock ate the rest of the half in a few large bites, pushing the plate away. His fingers drummed on the table, restless, and John hid the grimace that threatened to show on his face. This was going to be the real problem, keeping Sherlock entertained and not bored. His mind worked so much quicker than a normal person's, and John had a suspicion that it was the reason behind Sherlock's initial turn to drugs. Coping mechanisms could be very dangerous, if one picked the wrong ones. Drugs were one of the worst.

"I'm guessing you've seen your room?" John asked conversationally. Sherlock nodded, watching John warily, as if he would turn into a demon the moment Sherlock closed his eyes. "There's a bathroom attached to it, and that's yours as well. Make a list of toiletries you need, food, whatever, and I'll get it for you. There are some basics in there right now. You're free to use anything in here that you need access to. I'd prefer you not break my laptop."

"Mm, no guarantees," Sherlock said absentmindedly. John sighed. Sherlock coughed, seemingly uncomfortable, and the movement and the noise drew John's attention. "I will be able to acquire a laptop that is superior to yours, so do not worry about the degradation of your inferior piece of technology."

John took a few moments to parse that sentence. "Mycroft?"

"Unfortunately."

"Could be worse," John pointed out prosaically, ignoring a snort from Sherlock. The corner of Sherlock's lips curved up in a smile, and John returned in kind before allowing silence to fall. It became awkward after a few moments. John didn't know what to say, and Sherlock was likely not yet completely comfortable in John's presence. Although really, John doubted that Sherlock would do anything he didn't want to do. Sherlock retreated to John's plush couch, sinking down onto it and closing his eyes. "Oi!" John protested. "You could at least take your shoes off."

"Boring," Sherlock replied.

John grumbled, shaking his head, before retreating to his bedroom. He left the door cracked open but settled his laptop on his desk closest to the door, in case he needed to leave his room quickly. Sherlock liked to cause trouble, and John wanted to be able to respond swiftly.

The next few days passed slowly, but the silence that lingered became more comfortable, less frayed around the edges. Sherlock was quiet and relatively polite, tentative. It was a large difference from the sarcastic man that John had met in the hospital. Sherlock spent most of his time reviewing John’s numerous medical texts, devouring all the information yet remaining polite and courteous when their paths crossed. It was as if Sherlock was trying to feel John out, trying to determine his limits so he knew where he could push and where he could not gain any extra ground. John was actually rather pleased with that, for it meant that Sherlock was actually respecting John as a human being, and not just a convenient house-mother.. Sherlock could allow himself to get attached, to grow close. Hopefully.

John showered and dressed in his street clothes. He had scrubs at work, provided by the hospital. It was the first night he had to work since Sherlock had came home, and John had to admit he was rather nervous about leaving the other man alone. John had not even had to leave to fetch groceries - it seemed that the moment he needed something, Mycroft or a leggy brunette was at his beck and call, fetching whatever he desired so that he didn't have to leave the house. He wasn't completely certain whether he should be intimidated or impressed, so settled with a mixture of both.

"Text me if you need anything, okay?" John said, his voice strict.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, mother," he drawled. "Shall I sit here and not move a muscle until you return?"

"Yes," John muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair, his nerves showing in the jerking, erratic way he moved. "Alright. Well. I'm off, then." He stood in the doorway, waiting for an acknowledgement. All he got was a raised eyebrow and a pointed look. Sighing, he left, closing the door and locking it behind him. Although he had left a key with Sherlock, he hoped the other man wouldn't use it, or have a reason to need to do so.

It was a short drive to work and a quick change into his scrubs before he was on the floor, cell phone tucked securely in his pocket so that he could hear it go off while he worked. He took report from the previous shift doctor, setting up his mind sheet, and then he was off.

It was twelve hours later before he had a chance to check his phone. Back to back codes, cardiac arrests, arrhythmia, intubations, severe trauma patients. Anything and everything had tried to die in front of John and he had ran the entire time, had told four families that their loved ones were not coming back, including the parents of a seven year old child hit by a car. He was tired and emotionally exhausted, and all he wanted to do was go home and collapse into his bed.

Oh god.

Sherlock.

Pulling out his phone, John noticed with a growing sense of horror that he had twenty three text messages and two voicemails. He groaned. The fucking codes, the deaths, the trauma. He vaguely recalled feeling his phone buzz against his leg, but he had been hands-deep in a teenager’s chest, trying to pinch off the aorta, or trying to intubate the 7-year-old that didn’t survive, or coding the three victims of a car accident that had all ended up in his trauma rooms that night. It wasn’t unusual that the ER got slammed, but it was unusual exactly how slammed they had been. He had not even had time to think about his phone, much less check it and read a message.

Twenty of the texts were from Sherlock, three from an unknown number John guessed was Mycroft's. Ignoring the texts for a moment, having noted that the timestamp was later for the voicemails, John dialed the number that allowed him to access them, listening intently to Mycroft's worried, frantic voice, pleading with John underneath the steely tone to go home and check on the stubborn man. God. He flipped through the texts, noted the increasingly desperate tone to Sherlock's words, and sighed heavily, feeling as if an anvil had been placed on his chest.

One thing! He had been entrusted with one bloody thing, one bloody person, and he had failed him already. He was afraid of what he would find when he got home. If Sherlock was even there. John changed rapidly, throwing his street clothes on and jogging out to his car. The drive home was silent and tense. John could predict roughly what had happened, but he did not know Sherlock well enough to be able to predict the specifics. Did Sherlock take drugs? If so, where? How much? Was there another overdose? There were too many variables for him to consider without having more data.

Getting out of his car, John approached the front door quietly, slipping the key in and noting that it was still locked. Had Sherlock simply used his key, or had he stayed home? Pushing open the door, he walked in, closing and locking it behind him. He turned, and froze. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, syringe capped and laying next to him. His breathing was steady, visible, and John already felt a pulse of relief in his chest. He walked over and gently peeled back an eyelid, noting Sherlock's pinprick pupil. Examining the capped syringe, John noted the probable dosage level and recorded it mentally for later comparison. Then he threw the syringe away.

Mutely John grabbed a book off of his bookshelves and walked over to the couch. His hands were careful as he lifted Sherlock's head, settling down on the sofa before laying it down on his lap. That way, sitting as he was, he could feel Sherlock's pulse and see his physiological reactions before they could depress enough to cause him any real damage. It wasn't very likely that there would be a significant decrease in his pulse or breathing, but John felt safer being prepared, felt safer knowing that he could see what was happening to his - whatever Sherlock was - before it happened.

Sherlock shifted in John's lap,and John paused, looking down, gaze momentarily drawn from the book in his lap. He carefully moved a curl out of Sherlock's face, fingers tender, before turning back to the novel he held. It was going to be a long journey, a long process, full of ups and downs that characterized Sherlock's very personality. But John had faith, both in Sherlock and in himself. They would make it through, and Sherlock would emerge stronger on the other side.

It just took time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes a writer and a pairing grow apart. Due to various events in the fandom and my own personal growth, there have become pairings I enjoy writing less than others. Due to that and a lack of time to properly maintain all of my projects, I have decided to put this piece on hiatus. There is a possibility that I will return and finish it, but I can no longer guarantee it.
> 
> My most sincere apologies,
> 
> Iolre


End file.
